


Snatched

by buckyno



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, BAMF Bucky Barnes, Multi, Sneaky awesome Natasha, Steve is regretting leaving the Army every damned day, Unbeta'd, asshole Rumlow, criminals au, except for Sam's face which is a superpower, it's gonna be a good time y'all, like literally almost everyone from the MCU, more characters will be added as the story progresses, the Howling Commandos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3869086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckyno/pseuds/buckyno
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Apparently Anthony Mackie and Sebastian love the movie Snatch and I love the movie Snatch so I decided hey, why not write a MCU Snatch AU?  Every-freaking-body is in here but it’s mainly a Steve/Bucky fic with some side Natasha/Clint other than that it follows the movie pretty closely up to certain points.  Everybody is a criminal, there’s a big effin’ diamond, Alexander Pierce is still a dick and Steve is still Steve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snatched

**Chapter 1**

 

 

His name was Steve Rogers, kind of a dull name for a guy in his business, he knew. Some people called him Captain America after the impressive array of impossible shit he pulled off in Afghanistan during the war. Soldiers were quick with the nicknames, he hadn’t even been a Captain until he came home to New York then the top brass decided to promote him but the same top brass weren’t really feeling it when Steve said he was retiring. The man sitting next to him acting infinitely more comfortable in the empty office was Sam Wilson, aka the Falcon. Wilson liked to tell people he got the name from being the world’s best wingman. The reality of it was it happened to be the perfect call-sign for the guy who liked to jump out of planes with guns a’ blazing. The two were partners, brothers-in-arms, what that really meant was Wilson tried to keep Steve out of as much trouble as possible while keeping both of their asses alive. London had little patience for big blonde Americans and their weirdly moral views. Weird because, well, their business wasn’t exactly a moral one in the eyes of the law. They were boxing promoters. Unlicensed boxing promoters and between the two of them they knew exactly shit about diamonds. Didn’t they come from Antwerp?

* * *

(One Week Earlier)

Antwerp, Belgium

Clint wished he could say being dressed up like a Rabbi with three other assholes dressed like Rabbis, complete with beards, was the lowest point in his life. But, he had to admit, it was better than that long weekend he spent in a dumpster behind what used to be his favorite Thai restaurant in the shadier part of Brooklyn. Still made him feel like and asshole. Mostly because of the Rabbi thing and a little because when he’d cased the place posing as an interested party they always gave him a decent cup of coffee. Fury though, Clint owed him. Lots. Convincing scary Vegas mobster types to not cut off a fella’s finger for gambling debt was no small thing. Clint still had all his fingers and Fury had the permanent privilege of calling Clint Barton for whatever odd jobs he needed done and when Clint actually got his shit together he was a half-way decent thief.

The guns were strapped to his chest via Velcro and a very uncomfortable vest under his black…robes? Clint didn’t think that’s what they were called. He wasn’t a fan of guns or teams but the place they were in was hardly a one-man job. Each fake Rabbi took a gun surprising a room full of poor company drones just trying to sort their client’s valuables. The Rabbis started yelling orders to get on the ground, one climbed up on a desk pointing his barrel at everything that breathed too loud. Clint shook his head to himself, unnecessary. The team started gathering money while Clint grabbed the owner and had him escort him to “the cage”, the supposedly secure room with bars on the windows where all the good stuff was kept. Clint had the owner gather up every gem they’d left to sort on the long metal table in the center of the room including the giant monstrosity Fury had sent him there for. The man’s hands were shaking as he shoved sparkling diamonds into velvet bags. Quickly he thrust them at Clint who struggled to hold all the bags with one hand, the other occupied with a 9mm that purposefully had no ammo in it. Neither did anyone else’s but they wouldn’t find that out until Clint was in the wind.

One bag, over-full, dropped to the floor pouring shining little stars across the scuffed linoleum. Clint huffed, “Aw, diamonds no.” In the same moment untrustworthy teammate number 2 stuck his head in and shouted, “C’mon man we gotta skin outta here!”

Clint cringed, asshole didn’t need to yell he had his hearing aids in—the non-damaged ones and everything. He picked up what was left in the bag but left the rest on the floor, the main reason he was there was already stuffed safely in his pocket so he took untrustworthy teammate number 2’s advice and bolted with the rest of the Rabbis. They had a van waiting in the alley behind the building. Clint felt the van lurch forward and smelled the rubber burn as the wheels squealed into motion. He finally felt safe enough to pull the fake facial hair off along with some real facial hair with it, he threw the hat and hair under his seat and sighed. Job well done. He managed to get the goods and then some plus no one was hurt. That was the definition of a good day to him.

Untrustworthy teammate number 2 plopped down in the seat opposite him and smiled, guy had a weak chin he should’ve left the beard on, “Going to London, right?”

Clint squinted at him, “Fury tell you that?”

Untrustworthy teammate number 2 shrugged and leaned, “Listen, if you need to get your hands on anything there I know somebody.”

“Guns?”

“Guns. Everything, anything. Want her name?” “Her?” Another shrug.

Clint had never been to London and wasn’t exactly looking forward to it, he was a New York boy through and through and that made him sort of naturally resistant to immersing himself in other cultures. Did they have pizza in London? What if they didn’t, oh God. “Alright, hit me.”

The other man smiled, “Natasha Romanoff, the ‘Black Widow’. She’ll hook you up man, here call this number when you land.”

 

 

* * *

London

 

Rumlow was working over a punching bag held together mostly by duct tape and disappointment. A vague outline of a man was barely visible on the bag but Rumlow was able to land his bare fists into where the throat and head were supposed to be every time. His knuckles were beginning to split, Rumlow didn’t notice.

Behind him stood Steve and Sam, Steve furrowed his brow, “Aren’t those moves illegal?”

“It’s an unlicensed boxing match Rogers, nothings illegal. Or legal for that matter. You should be more concerned about getting an update on that piece of shit you call an office.” Sam jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward a rusting little Airstream held up by four cinderblocks.

Steve bristled, “What’s wrong with it?”

Sam rolled his eyes, walked over to the Airstream, and pulled the door right off the frame, “Oh nothing, Rogers. It’s in tip top shape, vintage as fuck.” He let out a sigh that could only be called long-suffering, “Listen to me Cap, no one is going to take you seriously operating out of this crap pile. We’re already in a damned warehouse. You want to make it into legit fights? Start here.”

Sam leaned the door against the caravan and pulled a scrap of paper from his jeans, “I would do this for you but I know how you are.”

Steve took the paper and stared at it, he should have stayed in the Army, “This is a campsite.”

“Yeah, I’ve got everything worked out already. Dude named Barnes is selling a couple of caravans, that’s a camper to you Mr. United States, try not to spend all our money.” Sam clapped a hand on Steve’s back, the handle of a lack-luster pistol holstered to his side just visible.

“Woah, Sam! A gun, really?” Steve held up Sam’s jacket while giving him his best “Captain America is disappointed in you Samuel” look. Sam was irked that look actually held some weight for him. Once you had Steve as a CO, friend or not, he never really stopped being your CO. They shared a silence for a few seconds punctuated by Rumlow’s heavy hits and harsh breaths.

Steve settled on, “You really think that’s necessary?”

“Man, I know you. You expect the best of people or at least expect them to choose to do the right thing when given the option, and trust me I know you aren’t naïve—I was with you in Afghanistan. But brother, with everything that went down yesterday you really don’t think we could use a little insurance?"

A sad sort of smile graced Steve’s face, the one that said he was fighting a losing battle but he couldn’t quite let go, “Where’d you get it?”

“Natasha.”

Steve gave Sam a look. Rumlow stopped brutalizing the punching bag long enough to ask incredulously, “The sneaky fucking Russian Natasha?”

Sam glared at them both and pulled out of Steve’s grasp, “Yes, the sneaky fucking Russian Natasha.” It was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes.

What happened yesterday was a close personal encounter with a Mr. Peirce.

No one worked in unlicensed boxing without eventually having to deal Alexander Peirce. He was a man of fine tastes and finer suits and who was, by all accounts including his own, an unforgivable prick. A prick whose manicured hands were in a lot of pies and practically ran any and all the fights in the city. So it really was inevitable Steve and company found themselves face to face with him in the middle of a pig farm of all places hashing out the particulars of having a match between one of their guys and one of his. Pierce told them he was doing them a favor. Steve and Sam both knew they were the one’s really doing the favor. Peirce wanted their guy to take a fall and everybody knew Steve’s guys never took a fall. Peirce was promising them a large cut of a very big pie, the sort of money that could only come from a “sure thing”. They both thought the guy gave off some serious creepy bad-touch uncle vibes.

“We’ll be having the match in one of my places. Everybody is expecting a good fight, make sure your guy is up to par. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me would you boys?” Peirce asserted himself with an official air that had Steve almost mumble a half-hearted “no sir” which made him all kinds of sick.

“Wouldn’t want to do that.” Sam replied. Sam had the kind of face that could be incredibly sincere and sarcastic at the same time. Steve considered it his superpower.

Peirce hummed and threw some feed into the fray of pigs in the stall he’d not so subtly made them all stand beside for the past fifteen minutes. It was all pretty obvious what he was trying to say without saying it. Don’t fuck up or else they’d be back at the pig farm under much less friendly pretenses. Sam had met terrorist cell leaders who were less dramatic and more genuinely hospitable.

Afterwards Sam dropped off Steve at the warehouse all gung-ho to tell Rumlow he was getting a center-stage brawl while Sam covertly made the short drive to Natasha’s. Her place was what looked like an antique store, it totally wasn’t, nestled between an indie book store and an Uzbekistani deli. Natasha had taken one look at him and materialized a simple wooden box hiding a clunky revolver. She looked like what he thought the love child between an arms dealer and a runway model would look like. No, she looked like war decked out in leather and red lipstick. He could have stood there all day eyes all dreamy thinking of analogies about Natasha Romanoff but she was smiling at him like a shark. All teeth, all bite.

“It’s heavy.” Sam said dumbly.

Natasha’s voice had a light lilt of Russian accent to it, “The weight is a sign of reliability. If it doesn’t fire you can always hit them in the head with it.”

And ignoring years of military experience Sam took that as legit reasoning and got the hell out of there after tossing her a thick roll of notes. He was not afraid. He was the freaking Falcon, he wasn’t afraid of anything.

What Sam was was practical. Steve was a little miffed about the gun because of the whole “we’re not soldiers anymore” thing. Sam knew Steve better than Steve knew himself more than half the time. He’d come around but Sam was more worried about getting Steve on board with mission: buy a new caravan so we can look like fucking professionals.

“Barnes, huh?” Asked Steve yielding to his partner about the gun for the moment.

“Yup. Take Rumlow with you. I don’t expect them to give you any trouble but he’s dealt with them before and backup never hurts.”

“Them?”

“Well, they’re words folks around here have for ‘em but are, like, extremely offensive. Barnes was keen on ‘travelers’. Go with that if you want or don’t. Just be your usual big sunshiny self and it should go fine. Don’t let them screw you though.”

Steve frowned, “Right.”

They heard Rumlow grumble something about hating those “underhanded bastards”. If it was possible Steve would’ve frowned harder.

“Before you ask while you out getting your shit together I’m going to be doing my goddamned job and promoting the hell out of this fight. Try not to put the whole of England off of all things American while we’re apart, I can’t be around all the time to take care of you.”

“Oh, that’s how it is?”

Sam smiled, “Ohh that’s how it is.”

* * *

New York City

 

In the world’s moldiest motel room sat untrustworthy teammate number 2. The phone he was trying to use was a rotary, a relic that had somehow slunk its way past extinction right into the modern world specifically to cause untrustworthy teammate number 2 some suffering. It could be universal justice considering the person he was contacting. At his wits end he finally reaches the number that had been scrawled on a card inside his wallet since he came to America three years ago. Fuckin’ America.

“Natasha! Clint fucking Barton has a diamond the size of a fist, I’ve told you it’s in the briefcase attached to his arm, I send him to you. What more do you want me to do, hit him for you?! Ah don’t you kill him either, Americans can’t know it was a Russian, they’ll connect it right back to me.” Untrustworthy teammate number 2 was shit at disguising his accent but that wouldn’t matter, everybody across the pond knew they were cousins. Americans took things so personal. Fuckin’ Americans.

“You suck the fun out of everything, solnyshka.” Natasha replied. Her velvety voice went in and out across the cheap phone line.

“Don’t call me that. Promise me you’ll have someone else steal the diamond, no connections to either of us.” He pleaded.

“Da, I promise.”

“Barton is only going to be there a few days before he comes back to New York, move quick.”

“Actually, I think I have a couple of guys in mind already.”

He could hear the smile in her words. Not a single soul from New York to the Motherland could deny Natasha Romanoff wasn’t scary as hell. The Black Widow had earned her name from a shadowy past and rumors of assassinations. Her other nickname was a bit more on the nose: Natasha the bullet-dodger.

“Good. One more thing that might help: Barton has a reputation as a gambler.”

Across the city, as far from that seedy little motel as anyone could get, was the Triskellion. The high-rise was home to an internet security firm owned by Nick Fury. Anybody who knew Fury would say that was odd because the man was a walking talking throw-back to the days cops could use a phone book to interrogate suspects. He was a fan of the old ways of doing things. Technology was great but men still needed to get their hands dirty. Men like him still needed guys like Clint Barton to do the things he couldn’t. Unfortunately Clint Barton was Clint Barton, once upon a time they’d called him Hawkeye. The best eyes in the business, once upon a time anyway. These days Barton’s eyes got too big for his stomach. Fury firmly believed all Barton needed was a guiding hand.

“86 carats, Director, clear as Mother Theresa’s conscience.” Clint held the stone up to the camera on his mobile and shimmied it a bit letting the light catch. “I’ve never seen a nicer cut on a thing this size.”

Fury reclined in his chair watching Clint’s antics on a monitor bigger than most people’s TV screens. He sipped his espresso from an I heart New York cup and made it a point to look unimpressed, “That’s a fine job Barton, a real fine job. Pepper already knows to expect you, she’s ready to move the rest of the ice whenever you are. Don’t make her wait too long, have some respect for the lady.”

When it came to stolen stones Pepper Potts was the one to speak to. Everybody knew Pepper, most believed she was the secret had of the Mafia in England. She did not say anything to support or deny those claims but in reality she had as much connections to the Mafia as the falafel guy down the street. She figured the rumors were good for business and in the diamond business it was good for business. “I have respect for the lady, all ladies, I’m a very respectful guy.”

“And Barton?”

“Yes, Director?”

“Stay out of those casinos.” Somewhere in London near Clint Barton Viva Las Vegas played obnoxiously loud, “This was a clean play, don’t go fucking it up.”

“I hear ya director, I’ll see ya director.” Clint’s face blinked off screen.

Fury leaned forward on his desk now with a victorious smile in place, “86 carats, damn.”

Maria Hill appeared and leaned against his desk, arms crossed, wearing a tight grey suit that was meant to distract you while she broke both your arms, “Where?”

“London.”

“London?” Maria had made it known days ago she thought putting the biggest heist of the year on the Hawkeye’s shoulders was a gamble. Apt turn of phrase considering. She didn’t like to gamble.

“Yes, London, you know fish and chips, crappy weather, Sherlock Holmes, Mary fucking Poppins London.” Groused Fury.

 

 

* * *

Back in London

 

“The weight is a sign of reliability.” Natasha grinned, “I always go for reliability.”

Clint aimed the Smith and Wessen Special at an old-fashioned cuckoo clock ticking steadily on the wall of a hundred other cuckoo clocks.The way Natasha moved around the shop she gave the impression she was a Czarina ruling from her palace. Everything just looked old and over-priced to Clint’s eyes. All except for the terrifying armory stock she had set put on the table for him to choose from.

Clint didn’t know a helluva whole lot about guns, an evil he had to endure to do his job, “Uhhh, I’ll take it.” Clint would take anything Natasha would give him in all honesty. She could have handed him a slingshot and he would’ve told her it was perfect, that she was perfect, and woah that’s not at all professional.

“How much?”

“Nothing.” That had all kinds of warning bells go off in Clint, sure he had maybe the smallest of things for redheads but he had been in the game for a long time. Nobody wanted nothing.

“Okay…so what do you want for it?”

“I want you to do something for me.” Clint bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from saying “anything”, boy, that would have been embarrassing. “There is a fight, unlicensed boxing, in a couple of days. I would like you to place a bet for me. You see, I know something that will tip the scales in my favor.” She winked at him Whoever kept playing Viva Las Vegas Clint really wished they would stop.

He leaned in, “What do you know?”

Natasha’s face turned predatory, er, more predatory and Clint knew he’d been had. Not so far away Steve Rogers was about to be had too.

Good deals were tough to come by in London. Steve knew that could apply to almost anywhere but he found it particularly true in London. People went a long way if they thought it could save them a buck. He supposed he and Sam weren’t that different from everybody else that’s why he driving down a mud road in a falling apart SUV dodging old washing machines on the very outskirts of the city. All in the pursuit of a good deal. Travelers were apparently known for making deals, they had famous negotiation skills. Rumlow told him on the ride down that was because the bastards talked so damned fast it was hard to follow what you’d just agreed to. They didn’t speak English and they didn’t speak Irish, it was something in between and uniquely their own.

They rolled up on a bustling little community comprised of a whole bloody fleet of caravans. A few women were hanging clothes lines and children were running around everywhere on bikes and playing with dogs. Steve felt more at ease all of sudden. He hadn’t known what to expect but his mind had thought up things a lot darker than the sight before him. Take away the caravans and replace them with squashed together apartment complexes and it could have been any neighborhood from back home. Rumlow on the other hand looked close to spontaneously combusting especially when some of those kids skidded next to their parked car with a thousand and one questions.

“T’ats a flashy car ain’t it?” Proclaimed one of the older boys as Steve climbed out, he was gangly and sported spider webs drawn all over his hands with a marker.

Steve smiled at him, “Not as flashy as that bike you got there.”

“Oi, you lookin’ for somebody?” The other kids seemed happy to pester Rumlow until the boxer rolled up the window in the car. Then they proceeded to beat on the window making faces and some other much ruder gestures.

“Sure am, you know a guy named Barnes?”

“Sure do,” okay, the kid’s voice definitely went from friendly to mocking, “want me to find him?”

“That would be nice of you.” Steve waited. The kid didn’t budge, he stayed half off his bike in front of Steve expectantly.

Steve shifted his weight, “Uh, what are you waiting for?”

“The forty quid you’re gonna pay me to get him for ya.”

Steve’s face dropped, “You can’t be serious.”

The kid was very serious. Just as Steve’s faith in humanity was about to dry up a smooth voice called out, “Wade, get your ass over here and leave the man alone!”

A man sauntered out behind an busted beetle in threadbare jeans and a soft-looking black leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up to a reveal strong forearms one of which covered in a realistic tattoo made to look like metal plates. His long hair was tied back in a loose bun showcasing bright blue-grey eyes and his smile curled his mouth slyly. Steve thought he was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

“Hey, you the fella Wilson sent about the caravan?” The man asked almost as one word putting his hand out for a quick shake.

“Um, yeah. Yes.” He could feel his face heating up but Steve refused to let that bother him.

“Oh well that’s good. Barnes, by the way, you can call me Bucky. Don’t mind Wade, the kid is an asshole but he takes good care of the little ones. Wade, why don’tcha go find Peter, his Ma said he was askin’ for ya.” Steve knew Barnes’ accent and it wasn’t any variant of English-Irish, it was Brooklyn through and through. He quelled the urge to throw his arm around the smaller man and ask him to tell him how to make it here so far away from home.

Steve didn’t know exactly how odd it was for Bucky to be there at the camp at all. It had all started with Bucky’s Ma marrying an American soldier and that soldier spiriting her away from her close-knit family. Marrying outsiders just wasn’t done but she did it and had to give up everything she knew because of it. They’d raised their kids in New York, one enlisted after the World Trade Center was attacked and it turned out he was a world-class sniper, the other one traveled the world for less deadly reasons and found herself in London where she met a young man who happened to be a Traveler. Like her mother Bucky’s sister gave up everything she knew for love. She immersed herself in Traveler culture and eventually they accepted her. Bucky wasn’t a big fan of the whole thing particularly because he got the news bit by bit while taking out targets for the good ol’ USA. One day he showed up at the camp and never left. No one trusted him at first but if there was anything Bucky was good at other than killing people it was charming the hell out of them. And so there they all were. A bunch of his old unit somehow ended up there with him and over time they’d formed the oddest family ever to be seen amongst Travelers or anywhere else for that matter. The older travelers had taken to calling the boys the Howlers. They could be like a pack of wolves sometimes, loud, unseemly, but protective of what was theirs. No one had a problem when Bucky and the Howlers started running most of the business side of things mostly because they were damned good at it and secondly because they were all perfectly aware of how most people saw Travelers.

When Rumlow saw his boss talking to a grown person he stepped out of the car too parting the kids like the Red Sea. Bucky glanced from Steve to Rumlow and took an exaggerated step backwards, “You’re a big fella ain’tcha? Hey boys come look at how big this fella is.”

Suddenly Bucky was surrounded by a gang of men, a few with friendly faces, a few who looked like they knew a thing or two about murder. One of the bigger ones, a man with a bowler hat and downright regal mustache, laughed the laugh of a man ready to throw-down for no other reason than it was Tuesday. Steve felt the tension in the air thicken but was quickly and quietly broken by the appearance of a small brunette woman who shoved her way through Bucky’s boys.

“What in the world are you doing? Invite them in for a drink, don’t just stand there all bloody day.” The crowd dispersed with some grumbling a few mean-spirited jabs Steve and Rumlow were the butt of. Bucky grabbed Steve though and tugged him toward his own caravan with his sister leading their way.

“Isn’t your friend coming?” Bucky’s sister asked. Her name was Christine.

“Oh, no he wants to wait by the car.” Steve answered apologetically.

Christine liked him immediately and she didn’t miss the way Bucky’s eyes lingered on the newcomer. “Why? What does he think we are, thieves?” She knew exactly what Rumlow thought they were she just wanted to see Steve sweat a bit more.

“No no no, he just likes…guarding cars is all.” Steve knew how dumb he sounded but went for a smile that said “I’m sorry my friend is an asshole” anyway.

Bucky spun on his heel to face him and every time Steve had to deal with the full force of Bucky’s gaze his chest hurt just a little bit, “Wow, you’re one of the shittiest liars I’ve ever met.” He smiled something more real then asked Steve, “You like dogs?”

“Um, what?” Steve’s life was a lot of “um what” lately.

“Dogs,” Christine reiterated as they reached the steps of the caravan, “do you like dogs?”

“Yeah, I guess. I like caravans more.” Steve said steering the conversation back toward why he was there in the first place.

Hearing Brooklyn out other people felt really good though, he had to admit.

The two waved him inside where Christine poured him a glass of Jameson and he and Bucky worked out the particulars of his purchase. Steve left the caravan with a new dog and feeling like he got a good deal. The Howlers looked on disinterested while Rumlow attempted to hitch Steve’s not-quite-new caravan to the car. It took Rumlow over fifteen minutes to do on his own.

“I don’t know what your problem is,” Steve told him when he got back into the passenger’s seat, “they seemed decent enough to me.” Which was of course was the moment they tried to drive away and all four of the caravan’s wheels with the axels still attached ripped right off.

Bucky tells them, “Hey, what’re ya gonna do? You bought it as is.”

“Just give us our money back and you can keep the caravan.” Steve tries to go with reasonable. Reasonable works for Sam all the time.

“The fuck am I gonna do with a caravan that’s got no fuckin’ wheels? Like I knew it was gonna do that!” The way Bucky says it might have lead Steve to believe him if he hadn’t been there with Rumlow.

Rumlow reponds hotly, “You fucking piece of gypsy trash!”

Of course Bucky explodes. Every single Howler there tries to hold Bucky back and Steve grabs Rumlow before the guy can do anything else stupid. Again the threat of violence subsides when Christine shows up teary-eyed and worried, pleading with Bucky not to fight because “you know what happens when ya fight.” Instantly Bucky backs off. He hates upsetting her, more than anything. That’s why he waits until Dum Dum gently leads her inside her house on wheels before giving the big fella a gaze that used to be the sole honor of those he saw through his sniper’s scope.

“You want your money back?” Bucky asks Rumlow avoiding Steve altogether, because well, he liked Steve, “You and me go a’ round. You win you get your money back, I win we keep the money.”

Rumlow scoffs, “ _You_ want to fight _me_?”

Steve wasn’t used to being the cool-headed one. He mellowed out some when he had to lead men into battle but he was still always the first one through the door as it were. Bucky and Rumlow were like oil and fire. He saw the worst case scenario unfolding before his very eyes and all he got out was, “Brock, wait—”

“Have it your way pretty boy, you’re not gonna be pretty for much longer.” Rumlow bulldozed through Steve’s words without a thought and that’s how they found themselves in a barn opposite the campsite.

The barn was clear of everything except a home-made attempt at a cage and some random lumber marking the perimeters of the makeshift arena. The place was packed. Steve saw more people in the barn than he did the actual campsite. His stomach roiled. This was going to end badly no matter what. He didn’t think he could let Bucky get hurt and the only thing Rumlow knew how to do was hurt. He’d often told Steve what he did wasn’t personal. It looked plenty personal to Steve. That man enjoyed pain. And somebody being super-hot, like really super-hot, was no reason for Steve to do the over-protective thing on them especially when said super-hot person started the damn fight to begin with. He just couldn’t help it. His ill-conceived plan to get between them was shot to shit by the Howlers who basically corralled him into a corner behind the fencing. Worst part was he had a perfect view but he couldn’t move through the throng of people.

Bucky had his back to Rumlow, rolling his neck and stretching out his arms. The crowd was rowdy around them and he tossed his jacket to a Howler named Denier. Rumlow wasn’t a fan of prep in any aspect of his life without warning he rushed Bucky landing his knee into the younger man’s midsection.

Bucky made a pained little cough but looked amused, “So that’s how it’s going to be.”

Rumlow picked Bucky up and threw him into the chain-link fence around them. He wasted no time taking long strides to kick Bucky while he was down, “Stay down boy.”

Bucky laughed and gracefully bounced back to his feet. He caught Steve’s worried look from across the room and gave him a saucy smirk. Bucky turned his back again to Rumlow and finished taking off his shirt then kissed the saint’s medallion he kept on his dog tags around his neck, “You stay ‘till the job’s done.”

“I warned you kid.” Rumlow’s fists were up ready to throw down until there was nothing left of Bucky Barnes.

All Steve could think about was the piece of shit punching bag that hung from his warehouse’s rafters, he squeezed his eyes shut tight. Later he would describe the sound he heard like a clap of thunder. He didn’t see Bucky dodge Rumlow’s first punch to land a lightning quick hit of his own. The sound Steve had heard was the sound of Rumlow’s face breaking, literally. One crushed cheek bone, a broken jaw from which lost six teeth, and a concussion that had Rumlow laid out on the dirt floor. All from one hit. What neither Rumlow or Steve had known was that James Buchannan Barnes was a bare-knuckle boxing champion thanks to the skills he earned through brutal treatment he’d received as POW in Iraq. Thirteen months of being forced to fight like a dog for his meals by a terrorist group called Hydra. They’d given him scars, the worst Bucky had covered up with tattoos. He thought having a metal arm tattooed on himself was sort of funny with how he used that arm and all.

Steve opened his eyes to find Rumlow unconscious on the ground and the crowd erupted into argument. It seemed there was some dissent on the unconscious part, some were convinced the big asshole was dead and that was a problem: for Steve. Because he knew these guys would have no problems burying Rumlow’s body and dumping his in right after so they could turn up dirt and leave, they would be protecting their boy after all. If Rumlow didn’t wake up soon Steve was well and truly fucked. This was, of course, all Sam’s fault.

 

tbc...

**Author's Note:**

> Next Chapter: Tony and Rhodey get into some trouble, Bruce is the getaway driver and Bucky Barnes is a beautiful cinnamon roll too pure for this world.


End file.
